


Beltane Fire

by keiliss



Series: Future Dreams [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: Beltane, Journey, M/M, Wine, accidents will happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 05:17:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keiliss/pseuds/keiliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beltane, Avarin-style. Music, dancing, spiked wine and a couple of unwary Noldor...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beltane Fire

**Author's Note:**

> 1) The great fire festivals have marked the turning of the natural year since time out of mind. Beltane celebrates fertility and the renewal of life.  
> 2) Seneschal:  
> i. the steward or major-domo of a medieval great house.  
> ii. chiefly historical, a governor or other administrative or judicial officer.

The towering mountain peaks, snow-capped even in the height of summer, hovered in the distance. Elrohir, numb with boredom, rode towards the Misty Mountains through a landscape that varied from scrubby, uneven grassland to endless hills covered in tinder-dry grass and outcrops of bare, grey rock. Long before they reached the foothills on their way to the High Pass, the party of elves returning to Imladris from the Greenwood had been subdued into silence by the desolate landscape through which they passed.  
  
The exception was Glorfindel, formerly of Gondolin, who rode in the lead, humming softly. He and an escort of carefully selected warriors were responsible for the safety of the group that included such notables as Lord Elrond's younger son, his seneschal, Erestor, and Caedion, the ancient elf who was his senior advisor on trade. As little as fifty years ago, the reborn warrior’s presence would have sufficed. Now, growing rumours of dark things walking the face of Middle-earth made an armed escort necessary.  
  
The official purpose for the visit to the woodland kingdom had been the wedding of Thranduil's youngest daughter, at which Elrohir would represent both Imladris and, on a more personal level, his father. As was always the case at such times, a secondary purpose involved discussions concerning matters of mutual benefit to both realms. The wedding was a warm, laughter-filled occasion and, somewhat to the surprise of all parties, the talks turned out to be almost equally successful  
  
During their stay, Elrohir and Glorfindel had both attracted a great deal of attention, Elrohir being blessed with a quiet beauty and an intriguing family history, while the hero from Gondolin was both charismatic and charming. Elrohir, aware of Erestor's scrutiny, had conducted himself impeccably throughout the visit - courteous, respectful, sober - while Glorfindel, having few duties with which to occupy himself in the safety of Thranduil’s realm, had spent a large part of his time learning local drinking songs and dubious jokes from the horde of young admirers who swarmed around him  
  
Allowing his horse to pick its own route as he followed the riders ahead of him, Elrohir let his thoughts drift from one topic to the next and tried to stay awake. He wondered idly what Elladan was doing. His brother would be unsurprised to learn that every other person Elrohir had met in King Thranduil’s realm had asked after his twin. People often seemed surprised to find they could act alone - as though being a twin made one less able to function when separated from one’s sibling. Elrohir had given a lot of energy to making polite responses through gritted teeth.  
  
It was true, he acknowledged, that as children he and Elladan had been inseparable, and were still the closest of friends, but their lives had taken them down separate paths. Elladan, their father’s heir, had to learn the intricacies of running a self-contained community, while Elrohir had been drawn to healing and spent his time studying the injuries and ills that befell elf, man, or beast. Their duties meant that Elladan was the more likely to come home with interesting tales to share, and Elrohir was rather looking forward to having a chance to turn the tables.  
  
His musings were brought to an abrupt end when he noticed a thin plume of pale smoke in the distance, close by the approach to the High Pass. With thoughts of possible Orc foraging parties in mind, and the opportunity for adventure, Elrohir urged his horse forward alongside Glorfindel.  
  
“Smoke up ahead,” he said, gesturing. He was relieved to hear that his voice sounded steady, almost casual. The tall, golden-haired hero of nursery tales both fascinated and intimidated him, and made him feel young and inexperienced. More than one attempt at conversation had left Elrohir tongue-tied and stammering and flushed with embarrassment  
  
Instantly alert, Glorfindel stopped humming and squinted against the sun in the direction Elrohir had indicated. He raised a hand, calling the party to a halt, as he sat considering the situation.  
  
Followed by Caedion, Erestor joined them and fixed Glorfindel with an enquiring look.  
  
“Smoke,” the warrior said briefly, pointing. He spoke to the seneschal as though to a brother warrior, Elrohir noted with a tiny stab of jealousy. The two often argued, occasionally flirted, and it was easy to overlook the core of genuine respect that had somehow grown between them.  
  
Erestor, who was far-sighted even for an elf, sat tall on his horse and shaded his eyes as he peered into the distance. After a moment he gave a small exclamation and relaxed, dropping his hand and shaking his head as though amused. “With all this travelling I quite lost track of the days - today must be Beltane. We should have been home earlier than this.” He settled more comfortably on the horse and looked around, smiling. “Well. Joyous Beltane, I suppose?”  
  
Both Glorfindel and Elrohir looked at him blankly, unable to see a connection between the distant smoke and a festival marking the passage to summer, though after a moment’s thought Caedion grunted in what might have been acknowledgement.  
  
The need for an explanation finally occurred to Erestor, who gestured towards the thin feathers of smoke. “Over there in the foothills near the road. It’s a holy place, a crossroads - surely you felt the power flowing from it on the journey down?”  
  
Erestor apparently thought this statement sufficient, but Glorfindel responded with a wrinkled brow and a look of charming confusion. Watching Erestor dismiss this with a cool glance from amber eyes and a flick of long, black lashes, Elrohir wondered why the subtle flirting between the two bothered him. He knew it was none of his concern.  
  
Erestor looked pained. “Do I need to explain ley lines to you? Elrohir, define ley lines for Lord Glorfindel, please.”  
  
Erestor had tutored the twins in mathematics and history, and responding to his instruction for a definition was as automatic as breathing. Elrohir was on fairly safe ground here. His mother had taught him about such things, much as she had learned of them from her father  
  
“Ley lines are the lines of power that cross and re-cross beneath the surface of the land,” he recited. “They are the conduits of the world’s strength, and we borrow that energy to help things to grow or heal, or… or do other things…” He tapered off before slipping into a potentially hazardous discourse on his father’s or - worse - grandmother’s possible use of this earth-energy.  
  
Erestor nodded, looking pleased, while studiously ignoring Glorfindel’s muttered, “I knew that - we just had another name for them.”  
  
“Great reservoirs of power are found in places where many lines converge,” Erestor continued. “Those are few - the closest one lies within the boundaries of Lórien. Wells of Eternity they call them in the Wandering Companies. And sometimes - like here - where a few lines bisect, they form a kind of crossroads. To some these are holy places, and they will come from far to celebrate the festivals within them.”  
  
Erestor had spent the centuries at the beginning of the Third Age amongst the Wanderers, and had only settled in Imladris within the last five hundred years. Elrohir knew he had lost his lover in the final battle of the Great War and had spent the intervening time healing, but he and his siblings had been discouraged from asking questions about his past. Now, however, caution was flung to the wind.  
  
“Is the fire set by one of the Companies, then?” he asked eagerly. “Is this where you used to celebrate Beltane when you travelled with them?”  
  
He realised that he sounded altogether too young, and blushed, which made it worse. He heard Glorfindel chuckle softly, which was unfair as he was probably wondering the same thing, though he got away with it by being ‘not from here’. Erestor shook his head, apparently unconcerned.  
  
“Not by the Wanderers, no. There are others who live off the land, and during the fire festivals - the passages to summer and winter, the times of planting and harvest - they believe the power of the Wells is at its strongest. They celebrate the High Days in these places with rituals that are almost as old as the land itself, rituals that arose in the Long Dark after our ancestors went into the West.“  
  
“That’s all very well,” Glorfindel said, remembering responsibility and shaking off the spell woven by the seneschal’s voice, which had grown soft with memory. “But we still need to make certain. Strange things walk abroad these days, so it is said. And this is far too close to the approach to the Pass to be left uninvestigated.”  
  
They started riding again while he was speaking, and were drawing closer to the smoke. They were soon close enough to make out figures moving in and out of a gap between the rocks.  
  
“Moriquendi?” Glorfindel exclaimed, surprised.  
  
Erestor nodded, sunlight glinting off his long, black curls. “Dark Elves, yes,” he agreed. “Amongst themselves they have many names; Kindi, Cuind, Hwenti, Windan, Kinn-lai, Penni, but to us they are the Avari - The Unwilling, those whose fathers refused the call to travel into the West.”  
  
Their approach was noted; before they could reach the outermost rock of the circle an elf strode out to greet them. He was tall and sharp featured, with piercing green eyes and light brown hair which hung in a loose tangle around his shoulders. He wore leggings and tunic of rough homespun fabric, the colours muted, making it easy for him to blend into the landscape. He was carrying a staff, blackened with age, and had a knotted red cord tied around his forehead.  
  
They halted and, to Elrohir’s surprise, Erestor dismounted and went forward alone. A short distance from the stranger he stopped and bowed slightly. “I am Erestor, formerly of the Company of the Bear,” he said, speaking clearly. “We are residents of the Valley of Rainbows and are on our way home. We saw your fire and wished to offer our respects.”  
  
The green eyes assessed them, noting their number, their weapons and their general appearance, before turning to Erestor. “I am Meret of the Kinn-lai,” the elf replied. “An initiate of the Company of the Bear is an honoured guest at our Beltane feast. If those who ride with you are willing to leave their horses and weapons here, they, too, may share our fire."

\--oOo--

Horses and weapons were left in the care of two warriors, and they followed Meret through a gap between the rocks. Immediately the air seemed to change, becoming tense and more potent as in the moments before the breaking of a summer storm. They found themselves in a sheltered, roughly circular area around which ancient rocks towered. The ground, although stony in places, supported unexpectedly lush, flower-dusted grass, while to one side a spring bubbled between rocks, the water spreading out and collecting into a small pool.  
  
The centre, by contrast, was bare and sandy and had been piled high with wood. As they entered the final branches were being set in place, and Avari with unlit torches were beginning to form a circle around the prepared bonfire. The smoke that had first drawn their attention came from firepots, placed to mark the cardinal points of north and south, west and east.  
  
There were around eighty Avari in the hollow, and all eyes turned to follow the strangers’ passage to the outcrop of flat rocks Meret silently indicated. Elrohir noticed that while most were simply clad, a number of the younger girls wore short, brightly-coloured robes made of a light, swirly material that clung and shifted as they moved.  
  
“Unbound maidens,” Erestor explained in a low voice in answer to his whispered query. “The clothing identifies them as willing to honour the spirit of the festival. Keep your distance from them or we'll both have your father to answer to.”  
  
Meret took up a position facing the spring and raised his staff high, and the elves around the unlit fire fell silent. Three times he struck the ground with the base of his staff and then, clasping the age-blackened wood with both hands, began to chant. His voice rose and fell, the sound insinuating itself into the place within each listener where whispers of night-dark terror resonated. There was no other sound; the building power deepened and drew closer, concentrating itself about him.  
  
The words he intoned were clearly spoken, but resembled neither Sindarin nor Quenya. After a few moments, Glorfindel nudged Erestor carefully and raised an eyebrow.  
  
“He calls upon the spirits of this place, the dwellers in rock and water, and the souls of the ancestors and the fallen from amongst their number.” Erestor replied very softly, his eyes on the shaman, his lips barely moving. “He will ask for their goodwill and a blessing upon his people, good hunting for the season, feasting, fertility, protection from evil, and that the great spirit that manifests here guard them and give them shelter from the dark things that walk the land…”  
  
His voice had taken on the rhythm of the shaman’s chant, weaving in counterpoint to it. Elrohir turned, startled. “How do you know…?” he began, only to be hushed by Glorfindel, Caedion, and several others.  
  
Caedion said softly, “Master Erestor's life has taken him to many places besides Imladris, lad. He had an - unusual life before joining your father’s household.”  
  
“Quiet,” Glorfindel interrupted. “Look.”  
  
Moving with strange, jagged steps, Meret crossed the circle to the spring. A flat rock painted stark white lay directly before it, upon which two bowls and a small lamp had previously been set. He bent and lit the lamp with a motion of his hand after which, still chanting, he took first one bowl and then the other and emptied their contents into the spring . Behind him in the deepening shadows caused by the setting sun, the rest of the Avari softly took up the chant, the sound echoing eerily within the circle of rock.  
  
Elrohir, attempting to catch Erestor’s eye, found Glorfindel’s blue gaze instead and they exchanged the slightly bemused smiles of two acquaintances drawn together in a situation that went beyond their Noldorin understanding. Erestor, not turning, answered as though he had been asked, “He offers the guardian of the well salt, flame, water and words. In return…”  
  
His voice drifted off as the chanting ceased. In the audible stillness, Meret took a waterskin covered with strange, bright markings and, kneeling, filled it from the spring. Erestor nodded to himself and continued, his voice barely audible, “In return for his offering, he demands water from the spring as a gift to carry with them - holy water for times of need.”  
  
Meret held the skin high and ululating triumph rose around the circle, only to stop abruptly when he lowered his arms. He carried the waterskin to a nearby rock across which had been spread a deerskin dyed vivid red, and laid it down carefully, then returned to his original position. There he stood motionless, staring at the spring.  
  
The air felt tight and thin, as though the rocks themselves waited. The Avari had turned as one to follow the direction of his gaze. The silence was absolute, as though time itself had stopped. Then a late beam of sunlight slanted through a gap in the mountains and struck the rock just above the spring, turning the water to molten gold. The Avari shouted, a single word uttered as one, and again fell silent.  
  
Meret strode back to the spring and picked up the lamp still burning on the altar stone. He moved a few paces towards the fire, offering it to the torch bearer nearest him, then returned the lamp to its place before the spring as soon as the torch was alight. One torch lit another and that lit the next, filling the sunset hollow with living flame.  
  
Meret waited until all the torches were ablaze and all eyes had returned to him, before raising his staff and intoning a final litany. Then, once again, he struck the ground three times and nodded sharply. At this signal, the torchbearers held their lighted brands high before casting them amongst the carefully stacked branches, and the bonfire caught and caught and caught again. As the flames leapt towards the sky, the feeling of coiled power rose and expanded, sweeping over and through them all like a wave before dispersing into the early evening air.  
  
“And now,” Erestor said in a judicious tone, as the Avari erupted into sound and movement, “We eat. And drink rather a lot. And dance. And generally welcome the summer.” He frowned slightly at the somewhat awed looks he was receiving, mainly from Elrohir. “What? Of course I know what’s going on. This is hardly my first Avarin celebration. Like Caedion said - I wasn’t always your father's seneschal.”

\--oOo--

Night had fallen, a quarter moon shone down out of a star-bright sky and the revelry was well underway. Food and wine - and other, nameless beverages - had been set out some distance from the spring with its makeshift altar. Someone had begun piping a merry tune on a flute, and the refrain was taken up by others. Simple stringed instruments joined in and soon dancers begun to weave around the fire, singly, in pairs, in small groups.  
  
Most of the company from Imladris remained on the far side of the grassy enclave, though Elrohir, Glorfindel and young Maerion could be seen amongst the Avari near the fire. Erestor sat sipping a cup of potent red wine, his expression distant, firelight dancing across his cleanly sculpted features. As a gesture to the occasion, he had changed into the pale green, embroidered robe that he had worn to Thranduil’s daughter’s wedding, and had twisted strands of exquisite moonstones - the love gift of a long-dead king - into his hair. His thoughts appeared to be a thousand miles and many years away.  
  
Caedion wandered over, cup in hand, and settled down beside him with a grunt. Erestor withdrew from memory and glanced at him. “They’ll be dancing till near dawn,” he remarked. “Not to your taste?”  
  
“Are we going to be staying the night then?” the ancient asked in response.  
  
Erestor looked across at the fire again, considering. An Avarin youth was demonstrating a dance step to an enthralled Elrohir, while Glorfindel, who loved music of all kinds, stood close by, snapping his fingers and swaying to some inner rhythm. Erestor smiled slightly, his amber eyes affectionate. “Let them enjoy themselves,” he said by way of an answer. “What harm if we reach home a little later than planned?”  
  
As he spoke, sporadic drumbeats began to sound as a lone drummer, shortly to be joined by others, began to follow the refrain of the pipes. The atmosphere around the fire began to change as more dancers made their way forward and casual movement gave way to a more formalized activity. Erestor experienced a few moments of concern as first Elrohir and then Glorfindel were drawn into the crowd, but then he settled back and relaxed. The warrior could surely be relied upon to keep an eye on his lord’s son, and Elrohir was no longer a child and could only benefit from exposure to cultures other than his own.  
  
Caedion leaned back against the rock and produced a piece of dried meat, which he proceeded to gnaw at in a contented manner. “There’ll be fornication going on out there till morning and beyond,” he remarked round a mouthful, gesturing towards the fire with the strip of venison.  
  
Erestor shrugged and grinned briefly. “Well, Beltane IS the Passage to Summer, and a time to celebrate fertility and growth, is it not?” he asked, laughter in his voice. “Even in Imladris. When we reach home, I’ll wager we find a small increase in the population - and with a year between conception and birth, there’s an obvious conclusion to be drawn.”  
  
While they were talking, Meret had gone over to the altar before the spring to assist an older woman in the placement of a large bowl upon one of the flat stones near the still-burning lamp. Once satisfied, he took up a solitary station upon one of the rocks overlooking the fire, where he sat with his head bowed and his elbows resting on drawn-up knees. Shortly after, the first of a number of Avari wandered almost casually over to the spring, each carrying a drinking vessel. After a few words that may have constituted a blessing, the woman filled these from the contents of the bowl.  
  
Caedion had been watching with interest. “And that?” he asked eventually, jerking a thumb towards the altar.  
  
“Something to guarantee the evening’s main activity, of course,” Erestor said lazily, smiling into his wine. “A form of aphrodisiac. The potency varies, but the constant is that a couple who share a cup will be impelled to spend the remains of the night honouring the season - it’s all about fertility and new life, remember? The trick, as I understand it, is to be sure you share it with the right person”  
  
Caedion grunted. “We manage that well enough without the benefit of drugs,” he said. “Go beat the bushes in Imladris after any festival or binding party if you doubt my word.”

\--oOo--

Time passed, the moon rode low in the sky and the night was filled with an earthy, rhythmic drumming woven about with a wild skirling of pipes. Over time the dancing had grown less inhibited, though the dancers were markedly fewer in number. Erestor thought it likely the diminished contents of the bowl beside the altar had something to do with this. He was doing his best to keep Elrohir in view, but as the activity grew more frenetic this became more difficult. The smoke had thickened, and he suspected this might be due to the addition of a hypnotic herb to the fire.  
  
He was not in any way concerned for Elrohir’s safety. The Avari offered no threat and if anything untoward were to occur, Glorfindel was close at hand. Friendly and outgoing as ever, the golden elf had woven his way enthusiastically amongst the dancers, drifting from one partner to the next, but Erestor noted that he returned often to spend a few minutes at Elrohir’s side, to talk and occasionally to dance. Having witnessed Elrohir’s uncertainty around the reborn elf, Erestor was pleased, and hoped the shared experience would put the younger elf more at ease once they returned home.  
  
The seneschal’s thoughts turned to food. Although Glorfindel had insisted that a decent portion of their travel supplies be offered as a guest gift, the Avari had packed this away and instead made dried meat and oatcakes available, perhaps as part of their ritual. One of the Imladris party had, however, kept hold of a bag containing dried fruit, which he was finally offering around. Erestor turned to investigate the contents, selecting a handful of apricots. When he looked back, Elrohir was nowhere in sight.  
  
He knelt up, craning his neck as he searched amongst the dancers. It was not the first time he had lost sight of the young elf that night, and for the moment he was puzzled rather than alarmed. It was only when he looked away from the fire that he finally caught sight of Elrohir, walking back from the direction of the spring and drinking from what appeared to be a very full cup.  
  
Erestor was already on his feet, hand extended to prevent wine from spilling on his good robe, when Glorfindel wandered into view. He had been dancing tirelessly, both partnered and alone, since the music began, and his habitually neat appearance had quite disintegrated. His sleeves were rolled back, he had dispensed with his boots and was barefoot, and his golden hair had come adrift from its careful coiffure to wave in loose disarray to a place well below his hips. He spotted Elrohir and hurried over to him smiling, a hand outstretched.  
  
For one hopeful moment Erestor thought the warrior was going to remove the tainted cup, but after a few words and a smile he placed one large hand around the younger elf’s wrist, raised the cup to his mouth and drank deeply. Elrohir pulled it back from him with a laughing protest, took another mouthful and thus, talking animatedly, they moved back into the whirl of dancers. In the last view Erestor had of them, Glorfindel had a hand resting lightly on Elrohir’s waist and Elrond’s son, who appeared to have quite overcome his shyness towards the hero from Gondolin, was smiling up at him.  
  
Erestor sat down slowly, his mind empty. Then he brought his winecup up to his lips and drank deeply and steadily until it was empty.  
  
“Shit,” he said, with quiet sincerity.  
  
Caedion, who had been watching the entire interchange expressionlessly, grinned briefly at him. “It’s like we always tell the youngsters - there’s no teacher quite like experience. They’ll both be a lot more careful about what they drink in future.”  
  
“At least they have a future. There’s a strong chance that Elrond might kill me,” Erestor muttered darkly.  
  
Caedion snorted. “I very much doubt it. That ‘fledgling’ you’ve been watching over is close to his thousandth begetting day. You have to assume in all that time he picked up some amount of first hand knowledge about which part fits where.”

\--oOo--

The fire leapt, and Elrohir danced as though he were a part of it, his body guided by the drums that drew him in, making him one with their rhythm. The wine he and Glorfindel were sharing was sweet and strong, sharp-tasting but with undertones of honey and - something else. To begin with he had tried to remember what it put him in mind of but now, surrounded by the night, his reality filled with souring flames and acrid fire scent, with bodies jostling him, leaping past, it seemed unimportant.  
  
He had no idea how long they had been dancing. It felt as though there had never been a time when he had not been obeying the confident hand on his waist, on his shoulder, in the small of his back. Time had slowed, the world was reduced to a small circle of sound and scent and taste. When Glorfindel pulled him into an embrace, slowing their steps, sliding one hand down to rest on Elrohir's backside, it seemed right and natural, as predicted as the brush of the warrior’s lips against his.  
  
Kisses and touches, long hair not his own drifting across his face, the feeling of 'rightness'; all these things fitted into the night, fitted beside the crackling fire. Somewhere in the back of his mind he could remember insecurity in the presence of this self-assured, heroic figure sent back from the dead by the Shining Ones to swear service to his father, but it all seemed remote now, irrelevant. The figures moving around him seemed vague and indistinct, Glorfindel the only reality.  
  
"Come, take a walk with me. Let’s get some fresh air." Glorfindel had to put his mouth close to Elrohir's ear to make himself heard, and his breath tickled warmly, making Elrohir shiver like a cat. He looked up into intense eyes and nodded wordlessly, and was rewarded by a firm kiss, full lips pressed against his cheek, making his skin tingle.  
  
Glorfindel took his hand as they threaded their way between the dancers. Soon they were outsiders looking in from the cool shadows amongst the rocks, apart and distant from the revellers and the blazing fire with its heady scent of burning herbs. Glorfindel slid an arm around Elrohir's shoulders and drew him against his side, and Elrohir's heart leapt in his chest and his world became defined by sensation alone; rough ground and cold, starlit grass beneath bare feet, sun-warm rock under his hand… Somewhere, dimly, he understood he was drugged, that they both were, but they were together and nothing else seemed to matter.  
  
Glorfindel stopped walking and momentarily released him, and he stood, dizzy, turning within sheltering stone, hearing drumming, piping, the blood pounding in his ears. A sense of space around him, uncertainty, the world whirling abruptly past in a heated haze. Confusion… and need. Hunger woven from wine and more-than-wine, and from the energy of the place and time. And, rising out of a combination of all these things, a wave of overwhelming heat and desire.  
  
And then falling, reaching out blind hands… Finding strong arms, a tangle of hair, golden as the sun, silk-strong, sliding over his questing hands. Lips on his, demanding. Parting to a thrust of tongue, honey sweet, questing, exploring, enticing him to catch it and suck, to follow in the dance - heaving, twining to match the carousing around the fire. Hands on his body, his clothing being unlaced... He struggled for a moment, confused, his eyes fighting for focus, and heard Glorfindel’s voice, ragged but recognizable.  
  
"Shh sweet one, be calm, it's all right..."  
  
The world turned and he turned with it, lying now on coarse, damp grass, his clothing being pulled open, off by hands made rough by need. Night-cool air against heated skin, grass cool and prickly under naked buttocks, thighs... Squirming to enhance friction arousing as a touch. A mouth - Glorfindel’s mouth - tracing a line of fire down his body, peaking his nipples with teeth and tongue, pleasure-pain pulsing in waves, a wet swipe to navel, stomach, hip. A pause. Glorfindel’s warm breath, the ardent, throbbing hardness below engulfed by wet warmth, by passage of lips and tongue, suction and the graze of teeth.  
  
Crying out, and again. Fingers knotting in grass, body writhing, knees raised, wantonly spread, hips thrusting. Glorfindel's withdrawal, cool air whispering over moist, aching heat, a voice, his voice, begging wordlessly. Thick hardness, perilously erect, pulsing under his touch. His hand closing, squeezing, stroking silk-clad steel, his thumb finding the swollen crown, grazing the slit. Glorfindel’s muttered oath, more movement. A large hand covering his, guiding it; pressure, slippery moisture slick against his mouth.  
  
“Open.”  
  
Obedience. Licking, tasting salt-sharp, tasting desire. Swallowing cock, deep, deeper, grasping firm buttocks, strong thighs. Hands grasping his head, fingers in his hair. Confusing view of muscled abdomen, crisp, pale curls. His mouth being ridden steadily, ruthlessly.  
  
“Good, that's good. Make me wet, make me ready, oh, so good…” A low, crooning voice, Glorfindel and yet unlike.  
  
Choking, struggling… and withdrawal.  
  
“Turn over, knees and elbows. Quickly.”  
  
Hands on his body, impatience to match his urgency, hurrying him. Crouching on hands and knees, grass and gravel scraping eager skin, offering himself, pleading to be used. Strong hands on his buttocks, spreading him wide, sharp puff of air against his hidden place, the shattering swipe of wetness, tongue against puckered flesh, a voice - his voice - keening, hoarse with desire. Press, withdraw, swipe, penetrate, withdraw…  
  
Hard bluntness, pain. Hands on his hips, gripping. A flash of fear - too broad, too long. Stretching, discomfort, sobbing breath. Glorfindel, filling him, panted obscenities, riding him slow and deep and hard, each thrust grazing his centre, no more pain, nothing but searing white heat and hungering, fire-edged need.  
  
Hard, warrior’s hand questing over thigh and below, his erection grasped, raggedly stroked in time almost to the thrusts within. Gasping, grunting cries, a primal song woven within the world-swallowing sound of drum and pipe. Bollocks tight, clenching urgency, sounds of flesh on flesh, the rhythm harshly speeded. Glorfindel thrusting to the hilt, Elrohir jerking back in response… And release; engulfing fire, consuming heat, seed spilt in hot spurts upon the ground, a Beltane offering as old as time.  
  
Shuddering, clenching painfully, squeezing the thick, pulsing hardness still within. Glorfindel’s curse, hands gripping his groin, drawing him higher, closer. Powerful hips jerking punishingly, swift, shallow thrusts changing, plunging deep within him, deeper. Stilling. And again. And again. Breathless incoherent, the warrior’s voice hoarse and thick…Hot, pulsing release, completion.  
  
Collapsing tangle of sweat-damp limbs, gasping and shaking into nothingness.  
  
Elrohir, waking to a jumble of movement, embraced the night without question as the world whirled past him once again. He lay on his back, arms flung wide, his legs being spread roughly, drawn up over wide, muscular shoulders. Hunger kindled, flaring within, his cock twitched then hardened, responding to the promise of pleasure renewed. Reaching up with eager hands, exploring smooth, firm skin, relishing muscles of stomach and chest sliding under his palms. Sensing power, coiled strength, responsive to his touch. Taut nipples grazing his thumbs, instinct telling him to roll and pinch…  
  
Thighs beneath his backside, bruising clasp of hands, thumbs probing, stretching him wide. Speared in one deep, endless, wrenching thrust, Elrohir flung back his head, crying elation to the night, drowning in an endless, drug-induced spiral of lust beyond anything either he or Glorfindel might have dreamed possible. Again and yet again through the long hours of the night, the driving power of their lust, the energy of their release, flowed into the crossroads, part of an age old rite of oneness with the land.

\--oOo--

Morning dawned clear and still with a cloudless sky. Erestor had slept briefly once the fire had begun to die down and the music had faded to memory. He had dreamed of other times, smaller fires, strong arms and a tumble of thick, dark hair… He woke to the sound of a solitary bird calling and lay disoriented, half-believing that if he kept very still he would hear slow breathing close to his ear, feel a warm shape at his back. Then, fully conscious, he pushed down the small, sharp tug of sadness and, rising, looked around him.  
  
The Avari were already awake, or perhaps they had never slept. The remains of the fire had been cleared from the circle, food and wine had been packed away, the altar was no more. Meret stood off to one side, watching as his people tidied the holy place. He exchanged glances with Erestor, but no words were spoken The Avari finally assembled in several small groups and began to leave the circle, passing the spring on the way. Each paused to dip a hand into the water and touch it to his or her forehead before departing.  
  
Erestor sighed softly, and nudged Caedion delicately with his toe. The aged elf had drunk deeply of the fiery wine the night before and was sound asleep. When he finally heard a grunt that might be construed as wakefulness, Erestor left him and went in search of privacy to remove his ‘good’ clothing, untwine the moonstones from his hair and ready himself for the final stage of the ride home.  
  
Rounding a boulder, he almost walked straight into Elrohir and Glorfindel. Elrond’s son looked half asleep - or possibly dazed - and jumped visibly at the sight of him. They were both saved from having to say anything by Maerion stumbling out of a cleft in the rocks to call goodbye to a young Avari maid, who was running to catch up with her departing people.  
  
“She’ll be looking for you in Imladris well before a year has passed, boy,” Caedion called across to him. “You don’t think there’s a chance seed sown on Beltane would fail to take, do you?”  
  
“At least I’m still young enough to put the night to its proper use,” Maerion retorted cheekily, which was greeted with raucous laughter by the rest of the party. Under cover of this exchange, Glorfindel said quietly, “Go and see if the horses are ready, Elrohir, and make sure the escort is awake and ready to ride.”  
  
Light grey eyes widened in surprise at the realisation that Glorfindel had, for the first time, spoken to him as though he were one of the warriors, not simply Elrond of Imladris’ younger, more studious son. Elrohir offered a nod and a small, rather shaky smile and headed for the exit between the rocks. He was very careful to avoid making eye contact with Erestor.  
  
The seneschal let him go and turned to assess Glorfindel, his amber eyes slitted disapprovingly. The warrior’s long hair hung loose in a disorderly tangle, there were kiss marks on his neck and at the corner of his mouth, and his clothing, barely fastened, was covered with grass stains. The blue eyes, however, were steady and returned him stare for stare.  
  
“Not one word from you, you night crow…”  
  
“That will teach you to check the contents of the cup before you drink.” Erestor interrupted dryly.  
  
“The wine? I thought it was the fumes from whatever they were burning on the fire…?”  
  
Erestor smiled thinly. He was rather enjoying this. Glorfindel was always so relaxed and in control and - happy - with life.  
  
“The altar wine contained a fairly effective aphrodisiac. Elrohir filled his cup there. Before I could warn him, you had joined him and helped yourself. The rest, as they say, is history. Aided, I suppose, by the after-effects of the herbs they burnt on the fire, yes.”  
  
“Not. One. Word.”  
  
“But of course not,” the seneschal agreed, blandly, “Elrohir is no longer a child, the matter is between the two of you. And his father, if and when he finds out.” He watched with satisfaction as Glorfindel shrank a little then added, “Beltane joy, Glorfindel. May the season burn bright for you and bring your dreams to fruition, as we say.”  
  
He watched Elrohir pass from view before adding, “I suppose we should all give thanks that Elrond decided at the last minute to send Elrohir with us, and not Arwen as originally planned. That is not something I would look forward to explaining to him a few months from now.”

 

\-----ooOoo-----

**Author's Note:**

> I am assuming Glorfindel returned with the Istari in about TA 1000. Shortly after TA 1100 the Greenwood darkened and became known as Mirkwood and travel became dangerous. The events in this story would not have happened even a hundred years later.
> 
> Translations:  
> Caedion - son of the land  
> Maerion - good son  
> Meret - who knows? Even Tolkien didn’t speak much Avarin.
> 
> Beta: Uli  
> Thanks to Phyncke for the bunny.


End file.
